Nuances de Rouge
by RuGrimm
Summary: In Bohemian era Paris, Le Chabanais, France's most popular brothel, is rumored to be the host of a mysterious darkness. When the Undertaker is sent to investigate, he encounters a fair, redheaded prostitute under the threat of demonic evil. Under the influence of a curse that may mean the end of his own life, he must chose whether or not love is worth the risk.


Dry lips wet a burning tongue, singed by the bottle grasped within an ivory, scarred hand that lay limply over the edge of a dilapidated chair—its occupant slumped and as dunk as the flames that stumbled and wavered in the nearby fireplace. The alcoholic beverage inside the bottle was the medicine for a throbbing ache deep within its drinker's chest, soothing the fissures of his heart like a mellow narcotic. Each breath reminded him sorely of that aching, causing the same pain to grow into the sharp stings that plagued his eyes red and weary with the sleepless, broken nights that had mirrored this one for several days now.

He swallowed the lump in his throat, ignoring the pit in his stomach that was equally as knotted, but he debated whether or not it was the alcohol he consumed or the sorrow that twisted and spasmed deep within his gut and spread over his body like wildfire.

In order to release the building pressure within the eyes he had been certain could no longer leak, he blinked away the nearly impossible tears and sniffed the draining fluid in his nose. He sniffed too fast, accidentally choking himself and causing him to cough and sneeze uncontrollably. Recently swallowed alcohol came back up, spluttering past his lips and dripping down his chin. Snot dribbled from his top lip and the tip of his nose, and more tears burned his abused eyes.

Doubling over, he continuously coughed into his sleeve, and then shakily washed off the remains of his sorrows on his sleeve that had assumed this duty for the past three days. It had turned a rueful slimey green and yellow, staining his once pristine white dress with his agony.

How pitiful. He knew just how disgusting he had become, and that thought alone pressed him deeper into the abyss of his weeping heart that cried and sobbed uncontrollably like the face of its owner, a broken soul screaming out in anguish.

Shakily, the man sat back in his cushiony chair, his home for as long as this depression had existed. His cheek rested on the red fabric of the cushions, silver lashes tickling his high cheekbones as he blinked away more of his sorrows. Polychromatic pupils focused on the vermilion fingers of the flames scratching and clawing at its stone prison in an attempt to escape and latch onto the closest substance its greedy tentacles could grab. He laid his chin on his shoulder, hiccupping and sniffing and drowning in his grievances. The fire in front of him faded away into something else completely, turning into the fluttering scarlet strands of tresses he had come to know oh so well, and the familiar scent of vanilla and cherry invaded his nostrils, causing him to let out a small, unmanly whimper. He bit his bottom lip so hard that blood beaded beneath his strangely pearly white teeth, and he ignored the coppery taste on the tip of his tongue. For that unforgettable shade of red claimed his mind in its iron grip, holding his thoughts captive as memories plagued his very being and caused his brain to swim in heartbreak.

His mouth quivered, eyes and cheekbones pressed together as his face contorted into one of absolute pain as he recalled the name she'd given him. "M-m-mon ch-ch-er-eri...Mon...cheri...Mon ch-cheri..." His voice cracked, throat raw and sore from the hours of grief sacrificed to a love now lost. His heart felt as if it were impaled upon his own scythe, slowly twisted and then wrenched from broken ribs—chest spurting blood.

So close had he been to the new meaning of his existence. So close had he been in gripping the future in the palm of his hand. He had known the dangers of loving a mortal woman. He had known the consequences of falling in love period, but he hadn't thought it would end so quickly.

He hadn't thought he'd lose her as quickly as he had gained her.

His darling.

Ton cheri.

He coughed again, body starting to tremble and shake uncontrollably with his cries. Unable to take his own grief anymore, he slid out of his chair and tried to stand, falling forward and catching himself by falling on all fours. He gripped the bottle in his hand a little tighter in effort to save his salvation, but he was too drunk to realize it was tilted to the side, and thus the precious contents of his bottle spilled onto the carpeted floor of his small apartment trashed by neglect. Crawling to the table, his shaky arms managed to grip the edge in an attempt to haul himself to his wobbly legs. Once, he stumbled toward the flames and fell to his knees in front of them in an attempt to reach the red hair that flickered in the fire of his mind. A smile broke his face, and he laughed stupidly as he reached out to touch the strands of carmine, unable to feel the flesh of his fingers slowly contracting together and forming blisters. It peeled back, turning black and burning in the flames. Tears stung his eyes, but his dulled mind could no longer process the pain inflicted upon himself.

All he could see was his hand touching the redhead in front of him, threading through such beautiful, scarlet strands so soft upon his burning fingertips.

Then he smelled the burning; knocked from his stupor, he looked at his hand as the vision faded. His eyes widened, dilating and then falling to rage. His nose crinkled, teeth pressing together as he growled and tried to drink the dull pain away.

The bottle was empty.

Snarling, he screamed out in animosity, standing quickly again and throwing the bottle into the fire with a shattering of glass. The fire combusted at the remaining residue of alcohol in the bottle, and it caught the pant leg of the insane man on fire.

"FUCK!"

Cursing, the man kicked his leg out, stumbling and falling over as his sense of balance was hindered. He caught himself on the mantle, kicking his foot repeatedly against the wall to try and stifle the burning of his pants. Even when the fire subsided, he still bashed his foot against the bricks, breaking a few toes as they curled back and shattered within the confines of skin. He didn't care for the blood now smeared on his wall, or the dulled pain that would have been searing if he were to be sober.

Eventually, he relaxed, slumping against the mantle and sighing as he rested his head on the ledge. He hiccupped, starting to sob again.

He was a broken mess.

He staggered back, walking across the room as if his foot hadn't indeed been broken. He reached his desk, meaning to plop in his chair, but instead falling on the ground. Cursing, he crawled up onto the chair with a snarl. He then turned to the papers on his desk, each written in messy drunken scrawl that even he, if he had half his mind, would have difficulty reading.

A hand reached up to thread through long, greasy silver hair, ignoring the long, black fingernails when they occasionally snagged in the tangled mess. His eyes scanned the desk in an angry confusion, trying to make sense of his muddled mind and put together the words he wanted to say.

He'd promised her he'd write them. He'd promised. But the words weren't coming.

With a shaky sigh, he relaxed, closing his eyes as he slowly rested his forehead on the desk. "For what am I to do?" he muttered in French, swallowing the lump in his throat as his hand brushed over the surface of the pages beside and under his head. "I am lost without you."

Knowing he could no longer sit here, the man reached for the inkwell nearby, pulling his feather pen from its container and preparing to press it to the paper. However, as he pressed the point to the crumpled, creased surface, he realized that it was dry, lacking in any of its precious ink that would thus add to the tale he was spinning out on parchment. Newly enraged, he picked up the inkwell and threw it across the room toward the door that had just began to creak open.

"OH FUCK!" the blonde screamed, ducking the bottle that had been thrown toward him. It crashed into the frame, shattering on contact and causing the blonde officer there to flinch. "HOLY CRAP! WATCH IT!"

"GET OUT! GET OUT!" screamed the silver haired man, refusing to let the other see him in this state despite the fact his friend had already seen every night since the tragedy. "LEAVE ME ALONE!"

"HELL NO! THIS STOPS NOW!" Ronald Knox snapped, marching through the door, slamming it behind him, and then stomping across the small space in between him. With defiant courage (or just stupidity), the blonde caught the taller by the collar, pulling him to his feet.

Too drunk to maintain his balance, the silverette stumbled to a standing position, eyes wide at the new emotions he had never seen before in his subordinate.

"Now, listen here. Snap the hell out of it! She's dead! You can't do a living fuck about it! Get your head out of the clouds and stay out of the bottle! You aren't doing anyone any favors!" Ronald pushed the other down, causing the man to fall onto his side with a startled cry. As he lay there, the blonde towered over him and raised an accusing finger. However, he didn't miss the tears that had begun to form in the blonde Italian's eyes as well. "You aren't the only one who loved her, goddamn it! Stop acting like it! What would she do if she could see you now?! If you really l-loved her…just…just… ** _stop_**."

His voice cracked at the end, lower lip trembling as their eyes met and held their gaze for several more moments. A pleading expression held the blonde's face, and the man on the floor could do nothing but stare in a blank surprise.

"Cassius…" He never used his first name. _"Please."_

Cassius swallowed, trying to push himself to his feet, and Ronald soon bent down to help him up. Cautiously, he sat back down in the chair, looking up sadly at his longtime friend. "I promised…" he whispered.

"I know." Ronald curtly nodded, wiping his cheek with his sleeve before getting into the cabinet nearby to pull out a new inkwell. He then set it on the desk, grabbed another chair from a nearby table, and sat beside his superior. "But you can't do this on your own."

A somber countenance overtook the older's scarred face, and in response, he allowed a nod. "Then…what?"

"Huh?" A confused look crossed Ronald's expression.

"I promised…what do we do now…if I can't…?"

"I will help you write it…I suppose…" suggested the blonde, his voice quiet as he shrugged and looked over the scrawls Cassius had written.

He swallowed, nodding again as if it were the only thing he could do. Following Ronald's gaze, the drunkard sighed and frowned. "They are trash."

"Then…we start over…" decided Ronald, reaching for a new sheet of paper, dipping the quill in the new ink, and preparing to write. "What do you want to say?"

"Say? I don't know."

Ronald pursed his lips pensively, tapping the feather to the corner of his mouth. "Well…think of it as a book. What will the opening sentence be?" A shrug was his only answer. After several moments, Ronald sighed before setting the pen down into the well. "I'll be back when you're sob-"

"The greatest thing to learn is to love…" Cassius rasped, eyes focused on the page with an empty stare. "And…to be loved…in return…"

"What?" Ronald paused halfway from getting out of his chair, turning his attention back to his mentor and friend.

"The greatest thing to learn is to love, and to be loved in return. La meilleure chose que tu apprendras jamais, c'est juste d'aimer et d'être aimé en retour," he muttered, his silver lashes fluttering as they eventually closed and he leaned back in his chair. The French words slipped from his lips as he recited it just as she had, the memory still fresh in his mind even now. To speak them brought him an odd sense of peace in his heart, mending only a fragment of his shattered soul.

Ronald pursed his lips, sitting back down in thought as he slowy wrote the words out again on paper. "La meillure chose que tu apprendras jamais, c'est juste d'aimer et d'être aimé en retour..." he recited, the cursive lettering in fresh, black ink on the parchment.

"The greatest thing to learn is to love, and to be loved in return, huh?"

 **Xxx**

 **Author's Note:**

 **I hope you guys understand how difficult it was to try and find an appropriate name for this piece which enlisted the help of several people that I know. Nevertheless, here it is: a brand new multi-chapter fanfic. I hope you guys loved this first chapter, there are many more to come!**


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